


Cloaks

by calisonne



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, Original Fiction, Original Universe, POV Multiple, hi this is a tag, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calisonne/pseuds/calisonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cloak is honour, duty and family. To abandon the cloak and freeze is one choice, to stay true to the cloak and burn with it is the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tariyne (I)

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to point out any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors or anything that niggles you; rip this thing apart if you want - all constructive criticism is good for me! I'm not sure if I'm going to finish this.

Snow spiraled downwards from the sky, thick flakes dancing to join the collective body of white that smothered the earth. It was not heavy, but the thickness deceived the eye. Each one was large enough to fill the hoof prints of a small horse, and that it did, covering the tracks of the two brown animals and the single stag they thundered after. The creature, evidently a young deer in the process of growing a first pair of antlers, was struggling to keep a distance - the lighter of the two horses, a long legged chestnut carrying a dark haired figure, was closing it down. The man, draped in a crimson red clock, held a crossbow to his chest, drawn back and loaded with a bolt. He closed one eye, brought the crossbow up to his head, and fired. As soon as the deed was done, the man reached for a second bolt, drawing it out of the right saddlebag and loading it; he did not once take his eyes of the target, very much aware that his first bolt has landed in the animal's flank, yet as he released the second bolt, the stag diverged from his course with a sharp just to the left from the drift of snow to slightly higher ground, which was only noticeable as the deer became subtly taller – the snow flattened out the land. The fired bolt was left to carry on into an empty space, eventually dropping harmlessly into the snow. Barely an inhalation of breath later, the stag stumbled, the strain in his legs becoming far too much effort to maintain in this high speed chase.  
"He's yours." He called out to the rider of the second horse as he pulled up his own, brushing strands of his dulled hair from his face; the second rider, a younger female dressed similarly in a red cloak was was atop a smaller bay whom seemed to be spent from the long run. It halted slightly ahead of the chestnut without any encouragement. The rider brought her own crossbow to her chest, using both hands to steady the weapon. She fired the bolt as the stag managed to haul itself out of the snow, shaking the white stuff from his forming antlers, but the bolt sailed clear over her prey's head. The young deer sensed his luck and fled awkwardly, struggling to maintain a high speed. With a deep frown, the girl lowered the crossbow and plucked a second bolt from her belt.  
"After it!" The man bellowed, kicking his chestnut, a young looking stallion with plenty of energy, into a gallop. The bay heard the order and reluctantly went from standing still to a canter. Its rider, however, did not go with the horse, and was dumped into the snow. She did not move at first, likely shock responsible, but when she did, she was quick about it, sitting up and shaking her long dark hair free of the wet flakes whilst brushing them frown her body to avoid catching a chill. Her hand hesitated at her stomach, fingers brushing against something that created the sensation she recognised as pain, and when she bent her neck to look, she found a small dash of red was visible through her grey tunic; one of the bolts on her belt was likely responsible, but when she scraped the blood away with the tip of her nail, she found it was only a graze. Aware that the time she remained sat in the snow resulted in her behind and legs earning a soaking from the snow that melted from the warmth of her body, she stood, gathering her crossbow and the bolt that had been mounted in it, sliding it into her belt and pushing the other bolts around to the other side so they would not be resting on her fresh graze. She could see the man ahead, unmounted from his horse. The stag lay still, dead. Judging by the distance, it has only taken one more shot to kill it, and she displayed a disheartened expression at the fact she had not been able to witness the obviously perfectly aimed bolt strike the target. The weapon responsible had been set aside, a sword unsheathed and being used to hack away at the the deer, a process to gather all the edible meat and move it to the saddlebags of the waiting horse, the action completed with no delicacy. The chestnut, perfectly trained for traits his owner admired, shuffled patiently, adjusting to the weight of load hanging from either side of its body. The impatience was a continuation of the horse's display of high energy and an eagerness to run again. The other horse, the bay, was trotting back towards her, perhaps guilty for unseating her - she stroked its nose as it reached her and in return it nuzzled her cheek. She did not remount, but instead she took her horse by the reins and led it back towards where the man was completing the collection of his prize.  
"Where were you?" He demanded as he noticed her slow approach towards the partially stripped carcass, "I said after it!" He wiped his brow with a bloody hand, leaving a streak of maroon deer blood across his forehead.  
"I fell. I didn't have hold of the reins," she explained, her tone displaying how disappointed she was, "I'm sorry I missed the shot."  
"You fell?" His mood changed from one of irritation to one of panic, "don't do that! You know what happens when people fall from the saddle!"  
"Father, I am fine," she attempted to reassure him, shifting her arm slightly forwards to cover the small patch in her clothing. The movement only drew his attention to what she was hiding.  
"Tariyne," her father said sternly, sheathing his blade in his belt, he took a step towards her and pushed her arm aside, exposing the small stained patch of her tunic.  
"You're not okay, we have to get you back to the castle." He decided, spinning on his heel and seizing up the reins of his horse with some force, tugging the animal closer to his side before he mounted, the rest of the deer forgotten, "mount your horse," he ordered, tongue sharp.  
She did as she was told, sparing a moment to place her crossbow in one of her empty saddlebags. The deer her father had killed had not had all its useful parts taken from it, but it would no go to waste. A wolf or a cat would have it, and if not a beast a no-cloak, yet even with this knowledge she wasted another moment with her eyes fixed on the abandoned corpse. It was almost as if the lifeless eyes were studying her, but all she could see was her own reflection, and then her horse joined her in that reflection, rubbing against her arm. Reminded of her instructions, she climbed back onto her horse, who made a noise that sounded somewhat similar to a sigh. Then they were galloping again, creating more hoof prints for the falling snow to mask, snow that was cover and conceal the dead stag if it was not discovered soon enough. She cast a glance back at it, watching the bloodied brown lump fade away into the horizon, hands firmly wrapped around the reins. She could feel her horse breathing heavily beneath her, so she encouraged it onward with her legs, leaning forwards to remove her weight from the saddle – uncomfortable for her, but enough to stop her father disappearing into the distance in the same fashion the deer had. They made it as far as the frozen river, the divide that defined the land that was two cold to own, when her father suddenly halted, holding up his hand as a signal for her to do the same. As she pulled her tired mare to a stop, she followed his gaze to a mound decorated with snow. She knew this place. The man dismounted, the urgency of returning to the castle suddenly forgotten, walking towards it with tender steps, drawing his sword as he neared, and then plunging it into the snow as he bent one knee and crouched down before it. The sword was longer than most, encrusted with rubies - it was designed to look mighty; fit for a king. The gems were conspicuous in the snowy landscape, similar in colour to drops of blood, which it reminded her of her rapidly numbing wound. She was lucky to have not injured herself more during her fall - her brother had not been so lucky. It was at his grave that her father knelt now, his head bowed in a silent vigil. It had only been several cycles of the moon since Klaujay had met fate. They found him laying face down in the snow with a broken neck, and the only conclusion they could make was he had fallen from his horse, a wild spirited young stallion who remained missing. That was the reason her father was fretting over her graze; it was a misfortune to lose one child, a rarity within the higher class, but to lose two children, men said it meant you were cursed. Losing two children in the same way was an unthinkable tragedy. Tariyne dismounted. The snow, still falling in heavy clumps, was just short of her knees now. It wasn't anything she wasn't used to. Remaining a respective distance away from her father, she bowed her head, letting her mind wander into the banks of her memories related to her elder brother; the first one she recovered was the time she tricked her brother into submission in a mock sword battle. It was a memory she was fond of, and she allowed herself a small smile. That day, Chessren had lost his mock battle against Klaujay - Klaujay had been the most able with a sword out of the three of them, but Chessren, the brother she had shared her mothers womb with for nine cycles, had been classified as physically able while Tariyne had been classified as mentally able, which by presumption would make him more able to put his wooden sword against Klaujay's neck than she was, but it had been mental skill that had allowed her to trick Klaujay, not physical. Chessren had settled his mind by challenging her to a mock battle and winning. But even beaten, she had the victory over Klaujay to savour, until he died. The memory of his broken body surfaced and she closed her eyes as if to dispel the memory, but it only intensified it. His amber tinted brown eyes were wide and lifeless, mud brown curls limp and caked in snow. There was no blood, the only red being the cloak that had only been attached to one of his shoulders, the other end curling upwards as the wind had danced with it. Even when her father had forced his son's eyes closed, the image had been no less chilling; the picture was still as fresh in her mind as it had been back then, not her first glance into the eyes of death, but the first time death had looked back at her. Not invincible. Made to die.  
Her father rose then, slowly. He kept his head bent as he stood, making him look much older than his middle-aged features usually showed. He did not lift his head until he had drawn his sword out of the snow pile and replaced it against his body, bound by his belt. King Brastiam was of the physically able class; carrying swords was the main reason they wore their belts lower than the mentally able class. Being mentally able, Tariyne did not carry her sword by her side, it would be in her bedchambers, by the side of her bed, where she left it, unless someone had deliberately moved it. As royalty, she had her own sword rather than sharing out the ones in the armory - although hers was more for show than use, because of her class. She doubted she would ever wield it in a real fight; and the current long standing peace put that possibility at even lower odds.  
The king strode past her, mounting his horse in silence. He kicked off without waiting for her to mount, and she left him to his silence - Klaujay's death had been the hardest on him, not only because Klaujay was his heir, but because of the bond they had shared. He had been much closer to Klaujay than she or Chessren had ever been; in his eyes, Klaujay had been the perfect one.  
She apologised to her mare before she remounted, patting the bay lightly on the neck. The horse gave a snort of annoyance but and initially refused to comply with her demand as she commanded it to gallop on, only choosing to obey when she turned her gentleness to harshness, digging in her heels. Her father had managed to leave her eye line in the time wasted thanks to her mare, but the distance he had traveled, lack of concentration combined with the uphill ride that made viewing range much shorter, meant that he would not be far. Tariyne knew the way like the back of her hand, she did not need his guidance. Tearing across the frozen water that was the river before it could have a chance to crack, which it she determined it would not if her father had already passed over it, she managed to maintain a gallop across the slopping plain, only slowing to pass through the little wood, which wouldn't help her catch up to her father at all. Yet she always slowed to pass through the wood; it was a pretty place to be, especially during the cold season - the sight of the leafless brown branches reaching up to defend the ground from the attack of snow was one to marvel - it gave the trees a sense of magnificence and power. When she was a child, she frequently came to the little wood to think, for the air in the wood always seemed a little fresher and that cleared her mind; although her peace was usually disturbed by Chessren pouncing on her and tackling her to the ground, demanding a battle. She could never escape Chessren; she imagined the fact that he always knew where to find her was because they were twins. Indeed, the Queen, their mother had often remarked that Chessren and Tariyne shared a special bond. They were older now, and Tariyne hadn't visited the little wood in years, discounting the times she passed through it on a ride of some form, whether it be hunting or for pleasure. Chessren too was more restrained in his actions, respecting her personal space. He left her to her rides, understanding they were for her to be alone, alone meaning just her, not alone meaning her and him, which he had believed for quiet a length of time. Chessren had been a little slow of mind as a child – and then suddenly, what he should have known all caught up to him, which was the day he understood what alone meant, saddling her horse for her and waving her off in the courtyard. Most of the rides she took were for her own entertainment, as hunting was a skill she had failed to master.  
Out of the little wood, the air was stale again, and the snow fell faster. Tariyne's mare increased speed without any command from her - the bay had been hers for many years now, thus it knew her riding habits. The mare was indeed old now, and it tired from these long, demanding gallops across snowy terrain. It would probably suit both the interests of the horse and the rider for Tariyne to select another horse; yet Tariyne found herself attached to the little mare. But to place physical demands on the mare when it was too old for the pressure would only cause harm - the bay had served her well over the years, it did not deserve to be worked to death. She would not cry if it died, for it was only an animal, but perhaps she would be sad. Tariyne found herself promising this would be the bay's last ride - she could hear the mare's heavy breathing progress onwards to wheezing as they closed in on the citadel. The citadel had once been grand, her father had told her countless times, impregnable; it was certainly not impregnable now. But it did not need to be impregnable anymore. Nobody was coming to take crownhill. Crownhill had been the red cloaks for more than fifty cold seasons.  
The guards, dressed in the dark blue of her mother's family, dipped their heads as she passed. Although it was the red cloaks who ruled the crownhill, the king had married a dark blue cloak, allying the dark blue cloaks to the red cloaks and permitting them to live inside the citadel. Over the years the two cloaks had grown closer - some joked that the dark blue cloaks should dye their cloaks red and be done with it. Another of her mother's cloaks came for her horse as she arrived in the courtyard, relieving her of the reins and holding out a hand to help her dismount. She declined the help graciously, dismounting herself with ease.  
"Make sure she gets watered and fed."  
"Yes, my lady," the dark blue cloak dipped his head, leading her tired mare away to the stables. A quick examination of the courtyard did not reveal her father; she decided he must already be inside. She did not stand around, and turned towards the warmth of the castle.  
"Where's father?" Tariyne recognised the voice of her twin brother instantly. She was on the top step of her ascension to the castle, and he was in the courtyard five steps below, emerging from the direction of the armoury. Along with his red cloak, Chessren had dressed in a decorated pale purple tunic with a plum purple and gold fabric belt, topped off with the gold circlet he wore upon his dark brown curls. He had dressed for his status, which reminded her with a sense of dread that the green cloaks were due today for trade agreements. Chessren was the heir to the crownhill now, hence the crown he now wore. If she had come out of their mother before him, that title would have been hers; it had been Klaujay's once, but she had always grown up knowing she would never claim the position that she could have earned by gender several generations ago.  
"He isn't here?" Tariyne questioned, raising an eyebrow. She descended the steps to stand beside him; they stood at the same height, becoming although reflections of each other if it was not for gender and length of hair – hers fell down to the middle of her back whilst he kept his much shorter, long enough to almost hide his ears, but no longer, "he was riding ahead of me. I couldn't catch him on my bay."  
"You mean you slowed in the little wood." Chessren read her like a book, a smirk forming from the corner of his mouth. She could not deny it.  
"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," she offered him a small shrug, determined not to give her brother the satisfaction of being correct, "but we stopped by Klaujay's grave." She did not need to explain herself further. Her twin nodded in understanding, his circlet slipping down his forehead. He pushed it back up with a pair of fingers.  
"Lady Sansenya and the green cloaks are due any minute now." His voice was laced with impatience yet coated in a certain excitement; if King Brastiam did not return upon the green cloaks arrival, that put him in charge - even though the Queen was crowned, she was not a red cloak by blood. This meeting with the green cloaks was a delicate business - Tariyne herself would have felt nervous if she had been in her brother's position. She began to formulate a reply, but picked up on the sound of horse hooves, and forgot about replying in favour of searching for the owner of the horse that sounded like it was trotting into the courtyard. Horses would be more accurate, she decided as she narrowed her focus.  
"All hail the King!" A sudden shout startled them both, with Chessren's head snapping up from where he had been studying the floor. Indeed, their father, the King, was trotting towards them on his chestnut. He was not alone. Around him was a circle of green cloaks, all atop white horses, which she found somewhat amusing. Tariyne backed up onto the steps, and her brother joined her, identical in step - when they reached the third step they snapped into the motionless pose. Years of practice it had taken for them to master that routine. White horses for the green cloaks, mirrored twins for the red cloaks. Anyone could get white horses, Tariyne mused, the red cloak display was much more impressive. She held her position as more dark blue cloaks submerged the party in an attempt to collect the horses. The King eventually emerged, with the Lady Sansenya upon his arm and several green cloaks trailing behind, one of them the physician as Tariyne identified a moon shaped pendant. As the party passed them on the steps, Sansenya did not make an effort to spare either her or her brother a glance, but Tariyne let her eyes rest on the blonde woman's face for a moment. Her face, lips curved into a smile that seemed somewhat forced, was frosty, frostier than the snow.


	2. Chessren (I)

He stood with his back against the stone wall, using it as a support for his aching legs. He yearned to sit on something comfortable rather than remaining on his feet, since in the time he had been stood at guard, the snowfall had long ceased and the sky had darkened from a dirty white to a charcoal grey as the natural light began to wane; he had not moved since Lady Sansenya had entered the great hall with the king, from which he was banned from entering until the celebratory feast. As a sign of respect, he was duty bound to stay by the doors until his summoning - he had hoped to overhear some of the talks, but the thick wooden doors muffled the voices of his father and the green cloak into something less than meaningless sounds, and no servants had used the main doors to bring snacks back and forth; either the servants were using the back doors, or the talks were of a nature that even his father did not trust a casual ear to remain silent. So he was committed to a lonely silence, since he stood alone as the guard - his sister was not neglectful of her duties, but she had needed to change into something more appropriate, but time had passed and Chessren wondered if his sister would make it back before the doors opened or if the doors would open first without her presence - of course she would be scolded for that. Tariyne had also promised to go in search of food; raiding the kitchen for something to satisfy their stomachs until the feast would prove a challenge with the castle on high alert, and probably not worth it if she took any more time about it, but Chessren did not doubt his sisters stealthy abilities - and being the children of the king did bring certain privileges. For every passing second of real time that he stood alone, for a mind left to wander without a distraction, it seemed more like hours were passing. Chessren felt himself sink closer to the cold hard floor.  
His fingers wandered to his hair, twisting his dark locks of hair around his circlet in an attempt to hold it in place, an activity he had committed himself to more than once during his wait. He admitted to himself that he was anxious, but he believed that he had a right for that, considering this was his first time representing himself as his fathers heir towards an outside cloak, and appearance was certainly a large contributing factor to building up impressions; although Tariyne would not be considered small and he shared his height with her, being of the opposite gender to his sister held an expectation for him to be taller, so he was deemed small for a male, a trait to be frowned upon – an ill fitting circlet would not help improve the image others saw him as. Perhaps he cared too much about his appearance. Nobody had ever told him that, but understand ones faults was more than having others identify them for you. He let his head fall back against stonework, eyes feeling heavy, so he closed them.  
The echoing footsteps down the hall brought him back to attention; after eighteen cold seasons, Chessren knew the sound of his sister's footfalls like he knew the location of his own chambers. His head twisted sharply to the left as she emerged round the corner, dressed in a clean cream tunic with golden laced sleeves, tossing an apple into the air and letting it drop back into the nimble fingers of her left hand. There was another apple in her right, bitten down to the core. Her high belt had been replaced by a much thicker fabric one laced in a fashion designed to mirror her sleeves, although the colours were opposite.  
"I keep spare food in my chambers." She explained, tossing him the apple. It took him no effort to catch it, a simple raising of the hand and it hit his palm, his fingers curling around the apple as soon as he felt it. He wasted no time in examining it before he brought it to his lips.  
"What happened to the kitchens?" Chessren questioned, spinning the apple in his fingers as he chewed.  
"I am a red cloak of the crownhill. I cannot be seen to be thieving from the kitchens." Tariyne stated as if it was an obvious fact; to Chessren, it was almost mockery. In a mirror of his previous action of eating, Taryine bit into her marked fruit; at a glance it appeared to be more juicy than the apple she had given him. She ripped off a rather large chunk of the soft inside and then lowered the apple, moving her free hand towards her belt - there was a small package tucked inside the high-placed fabrc, wrapped in white cotton. She removed it with one swift swipe of her hand, setting herself down on the opposite side of the door to Chessren, setting aside her apple, and opening the contents onto her lap. He watched her sort through the various vials, settling on a small container of white paste; Chessren immediately identified it as a wound disinfectant, he'd used enough of it on his own injuries gained from training in the yard - battle wounds, his mother called them, but he had never seen battle.  
"Here." He stood, placing his apple down on the floor as if to protect his place. He crossed over to her, crouching down beside her on the balls of his fee, taking the paste as she offered it, unscrewing the lid as she lifted her tunic, exposing the flesh of her stomach and lower ribs. There was a small wound on the third rib up, not a serious infliction but it could easily become infected without treatment, or with treatment, the paste did not always work.  
"A crossbow bolt wound. Did you shoot yourself again?" He questioned in a bemused tone, dipping his finger into the paste, applying it to the small circle left by the bolt. He could feel his sisters eyes drilling into the top of his head, "you should leave the hunting to me, Tari."  
"I fell off my horse. I was storing the bolts in my belt." Tariyne corrected him, standing up and adjusting her tunic, evidently unappreciative of his humour, "I'm not a fool."  
"Only a fool would store bolts in their belt." He returned, running his finger along the rim of the paste's container to remove the excess paste from his finger. She gave him a shove with her boot, light and playful but enough to unbalance him. Chessren fell backwards onto his bottom; his circlet slipped off his head, clattering to the floor with a rather loud clang.  
"Then if I'm a fool, why am I classified as mentally able?" There was a fire ablaze in his sister's amber-brown eyes as she stood, but not one of malice - Chessren saw it as a signal; he jumped to his feet, graceful and silent as the warrior he was trained to be, took hold of Tariyne's arms and pinned her against the wall. In the moment, they were children again.  
"They could hardly classify you as physically able when you shot yourself with your own crossbow. Mentally able was the only other category you could be placed." He joked, playing a smirk on his lips. It was only when an exact copy of his own smirk appeared on his sister's face that Chessren realised in, a moment of dread, that he had no accounted for her legs. Her knee plowed into his chest, forcing two things - the first was the air from his lungs, the second the release of his grip on his sister. She seized the opportunity to reverse the roles they were playing, holding him against the wall by pushing her arm against his throat. Tariyne had taken care in her actions, forcing him against the wall in a manner which trapped his left arm behind his back, leaving her to use her free arm to restrain his right; she leaned in closer to him, preventing the chance for him to reuse her tactics.  
"Brains over brawn, dear brother, they put anyone who fails the mental trials into the physically able category. It's better to have an idiot fight and perhaps do something useful before he feels a sword through his stomach than have an idiot devise treaties which favour the other side."  
"Only the best get to devise treaties. The idiots never get as high as that." Chessren refused her statement, he may not have the brains of his sister, but he had twice her strength. He pushed against the grip she maintained, bucking his hips to free his trapped arm. They had an arm a piece now, equality, perhaps. They wrestled, pushing each other in order to see who could free their arm first; Chessren won that battle, pushing her to the opposite wall and freeing his arm by twisting his arm round and out.  
"Brains over brawn you say? Yet I won that battle." He turned his back on her, walking away to reclaim his circlet which lay where it fell, untouched. He scooped it up, replacing it among his curls. Chessren liked the circlet, passed down to him upon his brother's death. Klaujay and him had clashed, but Chessren did not take pleasure in his death - he had been his brother after all, even if he had left Chessren with more bruises than he could count; and besides, with it falling down his face at every opportunity, he was glad he only had to wear it at events such as these.  
"Let me." Tariyne stepped up to him, stealing the circlet from his head. For a moment Chessren though she was going to crown herself with it, but she simply held it close to her chest while using her other hand to maneuver his curls about while he stood patiently. Once she retracted her hand, she looked down at the circlet for a moment, hesitating before lifting it back up to place on his head, twisting it before letting it rest, "there, looks muc-" she was interrupted by the familiar click of the great wooden doors as they were opened. He immediately dropped his arms to his side. His sister quickly turned away and marched to the opposite side of the door as she backed up; they had swapped sides from where they had originally stood, behind him was Tariyne's apple core and the cloth containing the medical vials. She had put her foot down on his apple, which had previously remained barely touched, grinding it down to a sticky pulp. He doubted it was an intentional act; the apple was inedible now, the sight of it made his stomach remind him how hungry he was.  
It was the Queen who strode out of the great hall, draped in the dark blue cloak of her family. Normally, when married, the woman would take on the cloak of the highest family in the union, unless the lower cloak was the heir to leadership, or became Queen or King. In the first of those situations, the other would take the lower cloak, but in the case of their mother, no cloaks were changed and she kept her dark blue cloak. Instead, she wore a necklace with a red jewel to mark her marriage to the King, another opposite, as if she had not been queen the jewel would be of the colour of her former cloak, that along with the laces on her boots that was a sign of a relationship; though the former was only donned after a bonding, and exclusive to those who belonged to the cloaked classes. Queen Rubna had not opened the doors fully to exit the hall, and she was quick to close them behind her. The Queen did not give her children the colour of their hair, but she did pass on her curls; she was ginger haired, a vibrant orange that was a challenge to the sun, with a clump of dark brown visible. Chessren knew it to be a lock of Klaujay's hair. Before the burial, their mother had cut off a chunk of his hair, which she now kept clipped into her own, usually on her left for she rarely removed it - it did not look clipped in, to those who did not know the story of the brown lock, it seemed almost natural - if it was possible for a single section of hair to be a different colour than the rest of it, that was. Chessren had never laid eyes on anyone who could vouch for it being a possibility.  
"Lady Sansenya has signed the trade agreement." She announced with a wan smile, her hands were crossed near her stomach, a single finger twitching.  
"Not the original draft of the agreement?" Tariyne questioned, her head slightly cocked to one side. Chessren had seen it too, their mother was not fully content with the signing. He didn't imagine it would be anything to do with her husband's behaviour around their guest; King Brastiam was not one to flirt with those who were the similar ages to his children - he did flirt, but none of the green cloaks that had been accompanying the green cloak leader would be old enough to spark his interest. Even if she had been older, Lady Sansenya would probably have not been pretty enough to attract his father's attention. Her face was the wrong shape. At the age she was now, Klaujay would have been almost a cold season senior of her if the former had still been alive.  
"There has been one addition to the original draft," Rubna confirmed, studying her daughter. Chessren wondered if she could tell that the two of them had been neglectful in their duties to stand guard of the door; Tariyne's cloak was slightly lopsided, but other than that Chessren could spot not visible signs of their tussle. His sister had mostly finished the plait he had started putting in, tying the ends together and dropping it back among the hair that had collected itself in front of her shoulder, "concerning you, Chessren," She continued, turning her head towards him. Chessren bowed his head slightly to acknowledge her, his circlet failing to stay in position despite Tariyne's fiddling. He would have cursed under different circumstances, but he held his tongue, "Lady Sansenya is just over a cold season your senior. You're almost nineteen now, Chessren," she paused, "both of you, but Tariyne will have no part in this, of course," she almost stuttered, "I can understand if you do not want to go through with this, but the land would benefit greatly for us to have the allegiance of the green cloaks at our side as well as the better quality steel they can offer us. With the green cloaks at our side, the purple cloaks will soon follow." The purple cloaks were of a higher class than the green cloaks, one rung below the red cloaks, but the green cloaks had secured themselves a purple cloak man for Sansenya's mother, until she had died on the childbed giving birth to her only child; Sansenya had been raised to command from an early age, with a purple cloak father to guide her. In a way, it could be said the purple cloaks had fostered the green cloaks and raised them to hold the same ideals and beliefs - another batch of purple cloaks wearing a different colour.  
"I will do whatever is necessary for the security of our claim to the crownhill." Chessren vowed, with a smug smile; he pushed up the circlet once more. He knew that the Queen had more to say on the matter, but it seemed that she was skirting around the added term of the agreement, and Chessren was curious to know his role. He was aware of Tariyne's gaze upon him, so he explored that, expecting his sister to displaying some form of jealousy at his inclusion in the treaty and her exclusion, but she face was stony and emotionless; that set Chessren slightly on edge. He dropped his smile, looking back to his mother, a sense of nervous anticipation building up in his chest.  
"Lady Sanseya has requested that we cement this allegiance with your hand in marriage to her ladyship," Rubna moved towards him; she straightened his cloak, brushing the invisible dust from his shoulders. Chessren watched her silently, his body numbing. He understood his sister's face now, she had seen it coming - that did not surprise him. But marriage? Chessren had always known that his other half would be unlikely to be chosen by his heart, even less so after Klaujay's death and his ascension to be his father's heir; he had held out the hope that he would not be sold to a woman for the benefit of the land, and even if so, it would be a pretty girl with soft lips designed for kissing and a mind for tactics so she could sit beside him at council meetings. The words of his mother, although not something he would have never expected, was like his sister's knee to the stomach all over again - Sansenya was physically able, and her nose had evidently been broken before. Her lips would not be soft for kissing. "You don't need to make a decision now, my son," his mother lifted up his head, using her other hand to replace the circlet, "you'll have the feast to think, and then I imagine your father will want to speak to you." She smiled, a forced smile. He made an effort to return it. And then she left, scooping up the medicinal vials as she went, footsteps fading away as she walked to some other place in the castle; the servants would be preparing for the feast now, and rounding up the guests, their mother would have no part in that, but she had not gone back into the great hall. Tariyne and himself would wait for her return before they entered, but waiting, this time, was something that appealed to him. He needed time, time to think. To him, Lady Sansenya was an almost stranger, a young woman who had held leadership of the green cloaks for all of her life and had made no moves to secure herself any higher power. It was now, that the King wanted the delicacies and the quality steel weaponry from the warmer part of the land that she had stepped forwards. She had to have been persuasive for his father to agree for her to be the next Queen, since finding him a perfect match was what would shape the future of the land when Chessren took the crown. He could very well grow to love her, or he may never have any feelings for her. As King, it would be acceptable for him to sleep with other women, or men if she desired, but where was the honour in that? Would she make a diligent Queen? Chessren moved a hand towards his hair, twisting a lock of hair around his finger as if the motion would bring him the answers he desired - a lack of a pact between the red cloaks and the green cloaks would not send them to war. His father's gesture was simply one to bind the land, yet it was his duty to obey the wishes of the King. He dropped his hand from his hair; beginning to feel sick - he was drowning in his own doubts.  
"If you observe her during the feast, maybe you'll feel better about marrying her," Tariyne's voice broke the long silence, yanking him away from his thoughts and back to the where he stood outside the great hall, "because I know that's what you're going to do."  
"She's nothing to me," Chessren responded, quietly, "I know her name, that she's a green cloak and I've seen her face." His sister walked over to him.  
"When you're king, you can do what you want. If you're unhappy I'm sure you'll find a way to dissolve the marriage without harming relations. With intelligent counsel, that is." She took off his circlet, completing the action she had threatened earlier by placing it upon her own curls, "just don't feel the rush to produce an heir - when you become king I'd like the chance to be heir to the crownhill for a few years. That's if I don't get married off. I may be a light blue cloak by the next cold season." She looked about herself, likely trying to picture herself dressed in light blue, not quite bothered that her brother was only half listening, "or perhaps purple, considering recent events. Or perhaps neither, it would really depend on the situation, I suppose." She smiled softly, eyes focusing downwards as she began to lose herself to her thoughts.  
"And you're going to leave your hair like that?" Chessren questioned, noticing her hair was loose with a lack of style. She visibly froze, looking back up at him as she raised a hand to her hair, running her fingers through the ends with a frown on her face.  
"Of course not," she retorted as if she had been completly aware, gathering up a large segment near the top of her head and began to plait it together round her finger, quickly, but not at all roughly, quite adept at the task she was setting herself, in such a style that suggested she intended to take the plait down the full length of her hair rather than having it line her head like her own little circlet despite the fact it was only using a small segment of the hair on one side of her head. Anticipating that she would be making her hair symmetrical, Chessren circled around to her other side. She did not react when he tugged lightly at her hair, pulling a chunk away so he could help her mirror the plait she was finishing off, but his fingers were much slower and less practiced, and she was done and waiting before he had even managed a quarter of her hair, tucking her finished product into the rest of her hair, "I shall be sitting with my head titled during this feast."  
"I could improve the other plait if you like?" Chessren offered. A smile was visible creeping at the corner of Tariyne's mouth, but before she could reply, the footsteps returned, so he dropped the unfinished hair decorated and retrieved his circlet from his sisters head. Tariyne caught her plait and continued it, undisturbed by the fact their mother had so quickly returned, opening up the door to the great hall and releasing a mixture of smells - food. He admired how fast the kitchens were when they needed to be. Chessren stepped up to the Queen's side, proceeding to walk down the length to the hall. Most of the attention was on him, he could sense that; he was aware of Lady Sansenya studying him, a smile drawn across her features as she toyed with a goblet that could not have contained any liquid from the way she was holding it. He took his seat on the right of his father at the high table, waiting for the other participants of the feast to take their own seats - Tariyne, on his own right, had already decided to help herself to the food, loading her plate with a selection of berries and meat. Chessren did not start eating until the king began, picking lightly at what he had chosen for his own meal, despite his earlier hunger. He found himself taking his sister's earlier advice, watching the leader of the green cloaks as she ate and talked amongst her own cloaks. She seemed somewhat smug, and although there was nothing wrong with her smugness, considering she had just won herself a crown, he could not help feeling slightly uncomfortable in her satisfaction. He was grateful when Tariyne tapped him on the shoulder.  
"I think you should teach her how to smile properly." She had managed to dribble something down her tunic. Chessren nodded at the stain, his mouth twitching in a momentary flicker of amusement at this distraction, "and you always eat your meals without getting any evidence that you've eaten on you?" She remarked dryly, plucking a stalk from a berry and popping it into her mouth, crunching it between her teeth in a fashion that resulted with a blob of berry juice landing on his hand, "whoops." She apologised, taking up one of the small pieces of cloth designed to mop up any spills and wiping the liquid viciously from his hand.  
"She looks far too happy....in an eerie way," Chessren frowned, ignoring his sisters jape; his circlet slipped off his head and landed in his dinner, sending a spray of various juices in all directions. A small section of a red berry found itself on his eyebrow. Tariyne burst out laughing. Chessren urged her to hush, not wanting to draw attention to himself as he removed the offending evidence of his accident, taking the crown out of his dinner and wiping it down before placing it on the table, not wanting for another occurrence of the event, which seemed a high probability if he put it back on as it seemed to have pent more time falling from his head than actually sitting on it this day.  
"You're the future King. You also have a pretty face," Tariyne shrugged as she finally managed to contain herself, "and I only say that because I have a pretty face and you are essentially a male copy of me, but what more could she want? She has herself a crown and a husband with a face that is fair to look upon. I would be as happy as she is in her situation," she nodded her head towards Sansenya, "look that smile is much better, tell her to use that one in court." It was a prettier smile, but not pretty enough. He took a long drink, blotting out her face with the bottom of the goblet. A drink of wine would make him feel braver. He made his decision then, putting down the gold cup, standing up with such a force that the empty goblet bounced and clattered to the floor. He walked to the end of the high table, circling back towards the centre of the room.  
"Chessren." It was his father. Chessren looked over his shoulder to see the king holding out the circlet of the heir with a wild grin plastered upon his face, drunk, or so he appeared to be. Drunk on wine, or happiness? Either way, it had not taken him long. Chessren accepted the circlet, replacing it once more, offering his father a smile in return, a weak smile. The King was ignorant to that, more interested in filling up his own goblet with wine. Chessren took a deep breath, he should not be angry with his father for this, he would have his reasons. Reasons for steel that seemed misplaced in a time of relative peace. He forced himself to quell that irritation and continue along his journey, stopping in front of Lady Sansenya's seat. He turned to face her and dropped to a single knee, not daring to cast his eyes upon her features.  
"Will you, Lady Sanseya of the green cloaks, do me the honour of becoming my wife?" He asked the question, words sticking to his throat. He forced them out. He needed more wine.


	3. Tariyne (II)

She had been asleep, but the hammering on the door to her bedchambers tore through her dreams and store them away. As she blinked the sleep from her heavy eyelids, the pounding at her door continued; a loud enough attack at her door to suggest urgency. Something had happened. Whether it had been an incident within the castle walls in the darkened hours, or a member of another cloak arriving on urgent business, for no cloaks were not important enough to request aid when they wished it, she would be expected to rise to join her father, mother and brother in dealing with the issue at hand. It was rare to be awoken during sleeping hours. It didn't feel like she'd slept long enough for the new day. Her gaze moved to the window; what she saw confirmed her suspicions - it was still night. Visitors did not come at night. It had to be a thief then, one of the green cloaks had been caught stealing food from the kitchen, perhaps. Sleep still clung to her eyes, firmly attached in a sense that willed her to close those eyes again and re-immerse herself in her dreams. She had been a little fawn, something half dear and half woman. She was being hunted, but the hunters were no match for her - she had ran faster than them, and into the little wood, where she had been safe. It had been somewhat terrifying, but she would go back to it; it had been an adventure of sorts, but adventure was what she needed, although not necessarily in the way her dreams manifested themselves. The cloaks had a far too easy life, the no cloaks were the ones that lived each day in a fantasy, gallivanting around the countryside without any responsibilities. She had been a no cloak in her dreams before, journeying to the vast unknown and climbing the peaks of the world. She had also had dreams where she had been married. In admittance, she was slightly jealous that her brother would be bonded married before she was, but a green cloak with a face that Chessren clearly disliked only made her laugh.   
"Just a moment!" Tariyne called, and the knocking ceased. Sitting up, she pulled her cloak from were it lay across her legs, wrapping it around herself so that it covered her bed clothes. She instantly felt the cold chill in the air on her legs as the third layer of warmth was stolen from them - they lost the second layer as she slipped out of bed and then gained it again as her cloak dropped to cover the full length of her body. The knocking began again, much more aggressively and demanding, the owner behind them only having given her a few moments of silence. Scowling and somewhat hoping it was either really serious or it was not and she could shout at whoever it was, her fingers wrapped around the bolt on the door and slid it back, pulling it open and inch. The man, Tariyne could not identify him from the quick glance she had, took it upon himself to push the door further open to expose her fully, flashing a length of grey that she expected she was not meant to see. She threw herself backwards, blaming it on the fact she had just awoken that she did not land accurately from her little jump and stumbled, hand brushing uselessly over the dulled blade she had hoped to take up from her side table, only her finger connecting; it was a dismal blade, not only far from sharp, but chipped. Her belt was high, the more dangerous blades were owned by the lower belted individuals who claimed the title of physically able - it made sense, for the high belts had no business wielding swords. Yet a sword she had. And even dismal, it was better quality than most of the swords in the citadel. It was also an heirloom, passed down through several generations, more for show than for use; it had last belonged to her grandfather, the last mentally able red cloak. She removed her eyes from her sword, head jerking forwards to the man in the doorway; she was not greeted by a figure dressed in a red cloak, denoting a friend. His cloak was purple, blade thrust forwards into empty space.  _He was waiting for me to open the door so he could slip his blade through my stomach_. She realised, her breath trapped in her mouth. Quick reactions saved her, and they did again as the brute swung his blade at her neck, letting out a shrill scream, for attention, as she threw herself against the side of her bed, arm scrabbling for her sword, and when it was claimed, she thrust it forwards in an preemptive attack designed to strike at her assailant's knees; he parried the shot with ease, pushing her sword off to one side. He swung again at her head and she was forced to raise her blade to meet the attack, which she managed to hold long enough to force herself up onto her feet, and then his sword fell away, pulling off to one side. She swung to meet it, their blades barely clashed before he brought another attack towards her exposed belly. Slow and clumsy, the enemy weapon raked down her sword arm as she awkwardly maneuvered to make her block. The blood instantly blossomed to stain her white nightshirt a bold scarlet red, almost the colour of her cloak, but she did not feel it. She did not have time to feel it. The purple cloaked male spun his sword in his hand, a gesture of boasting, a wide grin flashing across his face. He had the courtesy to wait for her to raise her sword again before he attacked - while he was evidently intent on finishing the task he had started, he was clearly enjoying toying with his intended victim. He side stepped, almost inviting her into the open space of her charmers rather than wishing to hold her prisoner against her bed. Tariyne switched her sword to her left; having both hands equally as strong was her only advantage in sword-fighting as it often allowed her to outwit her opponents, but that had all been practice. She managed to block with the hilt of her blade, spinning away. His shot had been careless, underestimating her blade skill with her left hand - it worked outside of practice then. He spun too, his sword crashing against the top end of her own, and her own metal snapped, the half that fell away shattering as it hit the floor. Her attempted assassin's blade continued on, leaving her all the space she needed. She shoved her sword into his chest. She heard his own blade drop against the floor, rattling, and then he fell forwards almost instantly; she had to stagger backwards, letting go of her weapon to prevent the dead man touching her. For a moment, she stood, struggling as her lungs began to gasp for air. And then Chessren was in the doorway, tightly gripping his own weapon in his stronger right hand. His blade was coated in blood, suggesting he too had made a kill.  _What is happening, are we under attack?_  She wanted to ask, but the words would not come, stuck in her throat with her breath. The sight of blood turned her attention back to the man she had murdered; his blood was quickly forming a puddle across her floor. She could not breathe. Chessren, wide-eyed, turned his head away, raising his hand to his mouth for a few seconds before he turned back.   
"It gets easier." Chessren reassured her, his expression now stoic. It was a bold thing for her brother to say, considering he himself had never killed another before. They were not Chessren's own words either, they were simply echoes of the old and the wise, she forced herself to breathe, "I've killed three tonight, all purple. The corridor is clear but they'll be more coming." He did not await her response, but moved out, expecting her to follow. She found her breathe, rewarding herself by ripping the sword from the fingers of the dead purple cloak on her floor and making it her own. It was kill or be killed. It was a waste of life. Her brother seemed far to calm for her liking - this was a time of peace, yet her life had just been threatened by the allies of their newest friends. Her mind was scrambled, and she couldn't quite put together any of the pieces she had - all she knew was that somebody had let the purple cloaks in. She did not want to be alone. She rushed after Chessren.  
There were audible shouts originating from below them. With every step, the pounding of her heart grew louder too, taking control of her senses and filling her body with fear. This was no simple assassination attempt - it was a full blown attack. Peace time was over it seemed, but why?. As they descended the spiral stairs, Tariyne found herself constantly looking over her shoulder. The shouts and cries grew louder as they descended, until footsteps dominated the sound of the battle. Chessren pushed her against the wall, until the green of a cloak was visible. He stepped out, sword lowered.  
"What's happening?" He questioned, the faintest quiver audible in his voice. He was afraid then, but he hides it well.. The green cloak, a dark haired female, half halted, and then walked towards them, lowering her sword. It was at the last moment Tariyne saw the green cloak push her blade upwards and if her brother's reactions had been any slower he would have had her sword through his leg. Not a killing blow, but a dangerous one none the less; instead, he blocked her shot with his own sword, knocking the green cloak's blade further up against her chest. She was pushing against Chessren's blade, the strain evident on her face, with Chessren holding the advantage from his position of higher on the stairs, he did not have to work hard to to easily unbalance her, letting her feet slip from the step on which she was stood. She fell back, cracking her head on the hard wall and then tumbling down several steps, before laying to rest on the curvature of the stairs. Tariyne stepped up to her brother's side, from what she could see, the green cloak's neck was broken. Her brother remained unscathed, but his emotionless expression had suffered. His jaw had dropped, leaving his lips slightly parted in an expression of horror and shock. He was staring straight at the green cloak he had killed, Brow creased in confusion.  
"The purple cloaks have always been allied with the green cloaks." Tariyne offered, pulling together her stranded thoughts, "this treaty was all a plan to gain access to the citadel..." she lowered her voice as she spoke, the last few words bordering on a whispers.  
"Why? Why all this for...this?" Chessren asked after a moment, not turning to look at her; he was looking down at his boots, now laced to show his current relationship status with the leader of the green cloaks, "they would need to kill us all...and then the crown belongs to anyone..." he trailed off, not quite sure where he was going with his statement. He did not understand.  
"Inheritance laws." Tariyne voiced her thoughts. Chessren tipped his head to look at her. He was chewing his bottom lip.   
"We need to go and fight." Chessren said after a moment, prompting her to look back at the body of the green cloak laying below. They must have numbers to try anything like this. Mother and father would be fighting somewhere. Mother and father would be making them regret every raising a sword to the red cloaks. She and Chessren should too. When she looked back up, Chessren's sword was in front of her face, "we can do this, together. Brain and brawn together, who could beat that?" She brought up her own stolen steel, and tapped it against his own. It was some sort of comfort, that she was not alone, but had her brother, who was stronger and better with a blade, to protect her. Without a word or even a gesture, as there was nothing more to be said, they both ran, turning the final corner and emerging onto the bottom floor corridor. There were several bodies, two green cloaks and three dark blue cloaks, all dead. She did not spent any time identifying them, she had grown up surrounded by dark blue cloaks, she did not want to know which of those she would not see again. There were figures up ahead in the corridor, past the dead bodies, fighting. Chessren raised his sword above his head in some sort of battle charge, throwing himself into the fight. It wasn't a large group, no more than six in all, with two no cloaks, pledged to the red cloaks as defined by their red belts, attempting to face them down. Chessren took on two, swinging his sword about wildly in a manner Tariyne was not sure was tactical, but he was the physically able one, not her. She was left with a short purple belted female with light brown hair, whom used the same tactic of swinging at her head that the man who now lay dead in her chambers had used to start the fight; Tariyne ducked as she had before, swinging her stolen blade at the purple cloak's legs. She screamed, dropping to the floor as one of her limbs was severed. Tariyne cut off the hideous noise by cutting off her head. Chessren had been right, it did get easier, but this was battle - she could feel blood beginning to pump faster throughout her body, forcing the fear back down below. She did not have time to mull over what she had done, as the next purple belt turned on her; she wasn't sure where he had come from, but with a wide swing of her steel, she cut him down as if he was made of parchment. The third, whom must have just arrived in the hallway, managed to rip her cloak with his opening attack - she swung her sword at the man's stomach, clashing with his steel which he withdrew on an arc and spun back towards her shoulder; she met the blade with her own metal, pushing his blade away. He took his next shot before Tariyne was able to aim a blow, and as she moved to defend herself the hilt smashed into her right shoulder, a stoke of luck that disarmed him and left her to swing and remove his sword hand completely. She finished the job by pushing her steel through his chest, and withdrawing it before the life was quite gone from his eyes. She did not shudder quite as much now, moving swiftly onward down the now clear corridor, clear of cloaks stood up, that was - the floor was littered with the dead. Most of them wore belts, but more wasted life.  
"We need to keep moving!" Chessren's voice rang out from down the corridor. He was stood on the corner, where the corridor took a sharp right - her brother had most likely gone off ahead and now returned for her. He thought her capable of killing the last one then, another comfort. Yet her brother seemed to be eager to move on in a strange sense of excitement. Men enjoy blood, the old physician had told her once, killing was sweet. Her lack of sadness seemed to say as much, although she wasn't sure that she enjoyed killing - she was doing it because they were trying to kill her, nothing more. Her brother was now armed with two swords, the one in his left most likely to be used only to parry, "I've cleared the path towards the great hall!" He did not wait for her to reach him before he ran off, and Tariyne struggled to keep up with him.  
"The great hall?" Tariyne questioned her brother as they moved quickly down the hallway, "why the great hall?"  
"I don't know," He admitted, stopping outside the hall they had feasted in the hours previously, where Chessren had proposed. He threw the doors open, but the hall was darkened and empty. With a curse he wheeled away, although Tariyne was not sure what he had expected, "we're running around the castle, blind and deaf to the situation. We don't know whether we're winning, or losing!" He wanted answers. There was no answers here.  
"How many people have you killed?" She asked, catching sight of her arm,which she had long forgotten, the wound was still bleeding for it was a gorge in her skin rather than a light scratch. It stung to the touch.  
"Nine." He responded, slightly withdrawn.  
"Four." Tariyne compared, dropping her arm back to her side. She was no sure why she was counting. They turned a corner, aware of the footsteps heading in their direction - four green cloaks. The green cloaks, one cloaked and three belted, merely specs in the distance, raised their swords into the air and surged forwards, crying out for battle. Chessren raised his pair of swords as response and ran to meet them, cutting down one of them instantly. Even armed with two blades, Chessren still acted like he used one - he blocked with it but did not strike with the stolen steel, as she had expected of him. Tariyne herself threw a shot as soon as one of the green cloaks was in range, but the woman deflected the strike and thrust her blade towards Tariyne's stomach - the woman was faster than her, and the steel clipped her side, ripping another gorge in her skin, as she attempted to push the attacking weapon away. She reached across her body with her injured arm, grasping the wound; she could feel the blood on her fingers as it erupted from the fresh injury. This one was not patient; the green cloak aimed again, giving Tariyne had barely any time to respond - she caught the shot on the tip of her sword, attempting to hold the blade away as she delivered a sharp kick to the woman's stomach. As she reeled backwards, Tariyne released the barrier of her steel, protecting herself from the green cloaks weapon as she sliced forwards with her own. The green cloak fell, and for some reason she smiled. Killing is sweet, she recalled as she whirled around to meet her next opponent, but she only found Chessren dueling with a rather tall green cloak. Chessren was clutching his left leg, the sword he had stolen lay abandoned on the floor. He was defending, not aiming any shots but just blocking. Her brother was evidently overpowered, a sight Tariyne had not expected to see, although Tariyne imagined without the leg injury she had not seen him gain, he would be a match for the huge blonde haired green cloak, but Chessren was injured. The wound he was holding onto appeared to cut half way through his leg and Chessren was struggling to use it - his hand was a support to stop him from crumbling. No time to think. She removed her right arm from her side, grasping her weapon with both hands; she raised it, gathering her strength, and then launched it into the air. The blade took on a spin, but it did the job almost perfectly, the hilt hitting the man in the middle of his back before dropping down harmlessly to the ground. The green cloak half spun aware of the new threat and obviously believing what was behind him was a greater danger than the crippled boy he had pinned against a wall, but that was the wrong choice, for Tariyne had nothing to strike with, and Chessren was not out of the picture. Her brother had all the time he needed to cut him through the belly with his own blade, which dropped from his hands immediately once the threat was removed, wrapping both his hands around his knee. His head was thrown back, eyes on the ceiling as he grimaced. It was at that moment that Tariyne's blood rush dipped and she began to feel her own pain. She looked down at her own wound; the blood was still flowing, running down her leg and staining her trousers. They were both broken then, but till alive, for now - it did not seem likely that they would survive another onslaught.  
"We need to get out of here." She let her right arm moved back to her side, which hurt more than it did when her arm was not there, but Tariyne felt more protected.  
"We can't abandon the castle." Chessren protested, bringing his head back from the ceiling and to his leg, which he inspected. The wound was deep, cutting into his kneecap, "they always aimed for my legs. I wasn't expecting that."  
"We're going to get ourselves killed, and the the green cloaks will get what they want. We need to get out of here, recover our strength, rally the other cloaks," Tariyne looked around, the corridor was empty, apart from the bodies, but she did not want to be caught unaware, she scooped up her sword.  
"You go. I'm not running away." Chessren glared at her firmly. Tariyne knew her brother's mind was set. The most honourable decision, of course.   
"I don't want to die. And I don't want you to die. We've killed people tonight, real people..." Tariyne felt the reality beginning to spread about her body like a cold chill. She felt her brow twist into something that represented her fear, "...we're murderers now...." Killing is sweet. When your blood rushes, killing is sweet.   
"Did you expect to go your whole life without taking another life?" Chessren spoke hollowly, without emotion, and for a moment, Tariyne thought he was going to laugh. Yet she could sense he was not fully content, "you need to go. As heir to the crownhill, I order you to go. Get out of here." He paused, lifting up his sword and pointing it at her, "If we both die, they get what they want, you said it. If you leave they don't get what they want because you've still got a claim to this place. One day you can return, and feast on their hearts." Tariyne hesitated, but Chessren did not remove his sword, despite the fact a mixture of purple and green had appeared at the end of the corridor and were advancing upon them. Tariyne knew her brother was well aware of the looming threat, "now go!"  
Tariyne did as she was told, turning way and fleeing, from the corner of her eye, she saw her brother step out to meet the fresh band of attackers. Before she was even completely out of sight there came a scream; Tariyne did not need to look back to know that the sound belonged to Chressen. She turned the corner, her heartbeat racing once again, although this time, the pain was not dulled, but multiplied - she was losing blood. She was beginning to feel weak and she knew that if she passed out from loss of blood she would never wake up. She had a route of escape clearly planned in her head; she would use the side exit of the castle, unknown to all except those who dwelled here. She bolted down her planned route blindly, ignoring the sharp pain in her side, not slowing until she stopped at the end of the hallway, sheathing her her stolen weapon in her belt, the opposite side to her wound, grasping the bolt on the door and attempting to jerk it open. Very rarely used, the metal bolt was stiff and it refused to budge - she did not have the strength to move it. The corners of her vision were starting to darken; panic gripped her, surely she had not lost enough blood. Surely. Her fingers slipped from the bolt, and she reached out for something to grab hold of, wrenching her right arm; it must have stopped bleeding, for she felt fresh hot blood begin to run down her limb; but for her pain she found nothing and she slipped to the ground. The walls were closing in. Chessren would be dead now, like Klaujay. Maybe like mother and father. If she had planned an attack, her first move would to be kill the King and Queen in their sleep. Sleep, sleep was what she desired, a dream that was not this. She shut her eyes and let the darkness take her.


	4. Tariyne (III)

She cracked open her eyes, letting in daylight that, although dulled, burned her eyes, so she immediately shut them, waiting a few seconds were daring to re-lift her eyelids; Tariyne was able to identify her location before her eyes had finished blinking her way into adjustment, understanding that it was the passageway to the side entrance of the castle, and she was propped up against the bolted wooden door. Not dead then, not dead, and not found. In slow, laboured movements, she lifted her left arm from her side. It was painful, as in her ill-timed slumber, the blood had crusted up and hardened, half attaching her arm to her side; upon freeing it, she flexed her fingers - they were stiff. Tariyne imagined she had lost a considerable amount of blood, but not enough to kill her. She did not pass out from loss of blood then, that was a reasonable deduction - lack of sleep combined with panic was a better conclusion for her to draw from her pounding head. She was alive. She allowed herself a few moments to bask in that small victory, laying her head back down with a smile. The smile did not remain on her face for long, for her lips soon lost their curve when she remembered where she was and why she was here. She needed to get out.  
Tariyne took the hand to the top of her cloak, her fingers brushing against the fur that lined the top, which was matted with blood - not hers, and then she found the clasp, unfastening it and letting the fabric fall from her shoulders. Even if she managed to loose to door and escape her former home, she would not get far with a wound like the one in her side exposed to the elements, and her arm as protection was certainly not enough. She reached round to pull her cloak from behind her back with her right hand, reminding herself of her other wound by her viewing of her stained sleeve; her left arm went to draw the blade from her belt, quite awkwardly considering her sitting position, which she took to the fabric of her cloak which was now partially pressed between the wall and the floor, slicing two long strips from one side of her cloak - the fabric would serve as bandages. She collected up the items, not wanting to bend after she stood, grasping the sword firmly in one hand and the make shift bandages in the other, cloak draped over the same arm. Standing, she carefully replaced the sword in her belt, and then used her free hand to shift the position of her cloak so that she could wind up her arm wound with the first bandage before she wrapped the second around her side, ever so cautiously, covering the damage and allowing her to partially relax. The she replaced the ruined rag of red back upon her shoulders, an incomplete cloak for an incomplete person; but she did not wish to dwell on that. The door awaited her now, the bolt locking it inched perhaps a tiny amount from fully closed, which had been her own work some hours ago in her panicked and exhausted state. Now, when she gripped hold of the bolt with her left arm and tugged sharply, the bolt moved. It took the pressure of her foot against the door and the strength of both arms for the bolt to fully slide open, which it did with a rather loud clonk. Tariyne did not look over her shoulder as she pried open the wooden door and slipped out of the castle, very careful to close the door behind her, pushing her back against it for a few moments to ensure that if anyone heard the door and followed the sound, she would be very much aware of their pursuit. Nothing happened. Outside, she felt calmer, despite the still imminent danger; her head had slightly cleared, that was down to training, which Tariyne was glad was finally taking hold, allowing her thoughts to direct her on some sort of basic plan. The first thought that crossed her mind was the light blue cloaks, former a single cloak with the cloak of her mother. In recent history, two groups had started to develop from the overly large cloak that wore blue, so they split into those groups, one taking a darker shade and the others a lighter, becoming to distinct groups that yet still, remained incredibly loyal to each other. But the light blue cloaks were half a world away, down south across the ice lake where is was warmer, still snow covered in the cold season, but warmer. A trip there would kill her, not only for lack of supplies to set up a camp or food to consume, but she would no doubt be found before she could find the fort of the light blue. She did not know where to go, in truth.  
There was a chill in the air, but there was no wind. The snow wasn't much thicker than it had been when she arrived back from the hunt, which Tariyne was thankful for; the snow could have easily been half way up her thighs if it had continued through the night, which would have limited the speed she could move at; which almost knee-deep did already, but covering half her thighs, the snow was a serious movement issue - it was true that that issue would not be exclusive to her, but anyone looking for her would probably be mounted on horseback, and horses had much longer legs. She herself would not dare take a horse, for the only place to ride out would be the main gate, and then the hunt for them would be a much easier one. If she had to die, she would draw it out as long as possible; inconvenience to them would be pleasure enough for her.  
Keeping close to the castle walls, she followed the stonework round to the courtyard, discovering the space almost empty bar a cart, piled with bodies, the corpses striped of the cloaks they used to wear. In life, a cloak was honour, family and duty. In death, the cloak was taken and burned. But the man leading a pair of horses to the cart was a cloaked in purple. He was an old man, bald, walking with a slight hunchback as he shuffled through the snow, leaving two long trails where his feet had been. His purple cloak was a old as he was, faded and tattered. She doubted this old man had taken part in the clash of swords during the dark hours, but his presence washed away any lingering hopes that the victory had been her own cloak, and she could walk back into the castle via the main door, sleep for days while the physician tended her wounds. The physician was a pretty man. A pretty dead man . Her family and friends would be dead, but Tariyne felt no sorrow. She felt nothing.  
The man reached the cart and began the laborious work of tethering the horses to it. Tariyne drew her sword. She could leave them a marker of her resilence, a dead man out in the snow. _A dead old man that did nothing, but I will not see his face when I shove my sword into his back._ He was oblvious to her movements, securing the harnesses - and as she drew closer, she realised that one of the horses was her bay; the old mare she had vowed never to use again. The horse had its head lowered towards the ground, until its gaze swept over to Tariyne, recognising its owner and throwing its head up with a whicker. Tariyne took it as a signal to run, plans of leaving a present for the usurpers scattering. She broke into a sprint, doubling back and heading for the citadel walls, kicking up snow as she went. She was going downhill, and at one point she slipped, tumbling into a deep snow pit and earning herself a mouth full of snow. It took her only a moment to recover herself, scrambling up in fear of being pursued - fear, the only emotion she'd experienced since waking up. Fear was a strong emotion, a one that could serve to control a person alone, and she was a victim to that, only stopping her flight, despite the strain on her legs, when she reached the citadel walls, and that was only briefly while she gathered her bearings and located the steps leading to the top of the barrier, of which she found and wasted no time in ascending them. The steps were icy and slippery, but she kept herself upright, pushing against the stone wall whenever she foot slipped. The stonework was freezing, cold enough to burn her hands if she was in contact long enough; she longed for the warmth of her gloves, but they were in back in her chambers, like her clothes, and everything else she owned.  
When she reached the top, she stopped, allowing herself to catch her breath and fill her body with air. Her lungs sucked in the air greedily, and when she exhaled, the breath from her warm mouth became a cloud as it hit the cold air. Dragonbreath. When she and Chessren were young, they would run around the courtyard, pretending to be dragons during the cold season. Dragons, ancient creatures of fire. Some of the old stories said it was the fire of a dragon that brought the heat of the warmth season. But Tariyne had known better. Dragons were a myth, the seasons were seasons, that was the way of the world. If Dragons ever existed, they were gone now. Chessren was gone too.  
The citadel walls were high, too high to jump from without an almost certainty of death. Tariyne did plan to jump though, but not from here. She turned left, slowly and cautiously making her way across the top of the wall, which was made for running when the sun shined, but now in the frozen world it would running was a death wish; one false step and it was over the edge and game over in a snowy grave. Tariyne did not want to go that way, no more than she wanted a sword through her belly. She did not want to die at all. She respected the wall with her movements, so the wall respected her, keeping her perfectly balanced while she searched; besides being frozen, the wall was also damaged - the years had left its scars, cracks, dents and sections where the wall threatened to crumble. At one point, the wall had broken, falling away at a slant for half of the height of the stonework; the King had found no need to repair the wall, since nobody would dare attack the red cloaks. It was true indeed nobody had dared attack from the outside, but walls did not matter when the attack came from within, as she had recently been a witness too. Wasting no time, she clambered down it, holding out her arms for balance until she reached the edge - there was a slight wind now, she could feel it ruffling her cloak gently, although the breeze was not strong enough to lift it from her back; she did that herself, throwing the material back behind her, which the wind caught and lifted up for a few additional moments before it dropped gently down onto her back. Where the wall dropped away, it was still quite a distance, a misjudged jump from this height could still be dangerous, and although her cloak was small and ripped, it would slow her decent by a tiny fraction. She did not have to jump. She could double back and attempt to pass out of a secondary gate, which would be heavily bolted and locked. She considered it for a moment, letting her tattered cloak slip out of the grasp of her fingers. In order to escape that way, she would need a key, which she did not have, and although she knew her way around the castle, Tariyne doubted she would be unable to sneak back to her room to retrieve her keys and back again without facing at least one opponent; she had her sword, and she could cut them down, but they could cut her down too. Without proof of her demise, the colour change in power would not be accepted - if she went back into the castle now, she would never leave; in essence, her life was over, she would be hunted like an animal, like the deer her father had killed on the hunt and the deer creature that had been in her dream. She had imagined being a deer, fleeing at every smell or sound, destined to be food for a hunter, whether it be humans or wolves, but that had been a dream, and dreams were not real. In dreams, death did not come. Death terrified her. As a child, she had been afraid to sleep, in case death had come for her in the night, whisking her away while she slept, and she would never opening her eyes in the morning. The Queen had told her many times that unless she was struck down by a mysterious aliment while she slept, morning would await her when she woke. The Queen had also said that when death came for her, she would welcome death like an old friend. If she had ended up with a sword through her heart last night, Tariyne did not think she would have greeted death with any form of a welcome. _And those I killed, did they welcome death?_ Tariyne had not thought of the consequences as she swung her sword about, ending lives. They may have been afraid of death. As children, they may have avoided sleep in fear death would snatch them away in the night. _But they did not consider me or my fears when they attacked me_ , she consoled herself, taking in a chilly breath. She did not feel guilty. She pushed the cloak up again, raising it above her head, and then, she jumped.  
She landed heavily, on one knee, with knee that hit the ground emitting a loud thumping sound. When she stood, the knee throbbed, a bruising pain, she decided, nothing more. Her cloak had landed almost perfectly on her back, but Tariyne knew it was time to let it go. She had no choice, if she was to live. Her cold fingers went to her clasp, trembling she undid the bindings and freed the cloak from her body, letting it slide down her back into the snow; although the cloak had not been on her back during the jump, and the rush of the air would have made the jump the colder than the bottom or top of the wall, Tariyne felt colder now her cloak had abandoned her body - without a cloak she had no honour, no duty, no family, nothing. But she would be alive; fear was stronger than duty. Her honour had gone the moment she left Chessren, and with her family gone, duty was the only value she had left to betray; she kicked snow over the cloak to conceal it, bidding it a silent goodbye as it vanished under layers of white; the cloak would be easily uncovered, if she wanted to take it back one day, or if the purple and green cloaks considered investigating the area, but here the cloak had no suggestion of her motives, apart from her treachery to the values of a cloak. With the deed done, she broke into a run again, heading in the general direction of the little wood. The little wood was the only safety she knew, so she reached out for it - it wasn't long before the pain in her wounded side became overbearing, and despite her often celebrated stamina, she was forced to slow to a brisk walk. Here, she found that there were two specs in her vision, and she knew that one of them was the little wood, but she did not know the other. Curiosity beckoned her towards it, but fear told her to turn away; the first thought that sprung to mind was a camp. Green and purple cloaks it would be, moving in on their new home, whichever one decided to take the crown. She did not care, both cloaks were now on her mental list of things she despised. Halting in her tracks, she bent down and scooped up a large handful of snow, to eat and restore some liquid to her body before whilst she debated her options. It was when she took her first mouthful that she spotted a figure out of the corner of her eye; she bolted upright and spun around, brandishing her weapon.  
Facing her was a male of a slightly taller height. He had dirty blonde hair, short, but long enough and thick enough that the light breeze ruffled it. He was dressed in a light blue cloak; of all people to run into, it had to be the light blue cloaks, the ones she had wanted to seek before she had realised the long trek in a red cloak would be foolish. She almost smiled. The light blue cloaks held their allegiance with the red cloaks - with her. If she had not left her red cloak behind, they would have taken her in and protected her. _But for how long?_  
"What are you doing here, no cloak?" He demanded, his voice bold with the air of authority. He pointed a pair of daggers, mirror-like, at her chest. His hands were gloved, and his belt low, good with blades then, and if he had the nerve to arm himself with daggers over swords, he was not one to be messed with - unless that was a bluff. Tariyne did not want to find out.  
"Looking for food." Tariyne lied, although it was not a whole lie. She did not correct the light blue cloak on his addressing of her as a no cloak, although she knew if she revealed herself as Tariyne of the red cloaks she may be called liar and instantly cut down. And even if he believed her, she had abandoned her cloak by the citadel walls - she had no honour or right to be accepted into their holdings as a guest. She was nothing now. A no cloak she was, not a red cloak; she did not even have a coloured belt, for the one she had worn to bed was plain black - she had become the lowest of the low. She let her sword fall to her side.  
"Do you have a name?" He asked, giving a small nod of approval at her submission. Tariyne could have laughed, just because a person had no cloak, it did not mean they did not have a name. She held her tongue however, intrigued by his interest in who she was rather than claiming her as a slave or killing her to help rid the land of no belted no cloak scum. If she misspoke, he would be more inclined to do his the latter and cut her head off.  
"Iyssia. My name is Iyssia," she lied, taking the name she had once read in a book. She could not remember the significance of the name, but if it was the name of a famous Queen, she could easily claim that she was named for the original Iyssia. They story began to spin out in her mind, as easily as spiders spun their webs, "I was hunting a stag when he got the better of me. I ask for mercy."  
"Your bandages are red." He stated the obvious, pointing one of the daggers at her side, "you must have lost a lot of blood." He sounded uncomfortable with the begging tone she had opted into using. She realised that once again her heart had begun to pound in fear of her fate.  
"I'm weak, and tired," Tariyne continued, "the stag killed my mother." That much was not a lie. The Queen would be dead now. She tried to force herself to cry, but no tears came, and the effort of it had her dropping to her knees. She had never felt so weak, so small, so much less.  
"We could treat your wound," the light blue cloak offered slowly, lowering his own weapons, "you could serve us, we'd offer you a roof over your head."  
"Thank you, thank you!" Tariyne managed, looking up at him as she let out a long breath, letting the fear melted away. The life of a servant was not the best, but the light blue cloaks were known for their kindness. She recalled wishing to be insignificant for a day. If she could retract wishes, maybe she would be in the courtyard practicing with her crossbow, or curled up near an open fire with a book and a plate of berries.  
"Corlaise won't be happy to see you offering yourself out to a no cloak you just met," another voice broke in. Tariyne looked looked over a shoulder, a brown haired female was circling round to join the male. Her hair was pulled into a bun that split into two plaits, but Tariyne could see that her hair was made of tight brown curls. She looked down then, trying to portray the sense of submission further; she could see the male's feet - his boots were laced.  
"She's injured. Another no clock servant wouldn't do us any harm," the male did not flinch at the accusation, but shoved the daggers back into his belt. The female hadn't drawn her weapon, so Tariyne forced herself back onto her feet, sheathing her sword to match. Her knees were soaked from the snow, the fabric of a her night bottoms clung to her skin.  
"Fine blade you have there," the female observed, "steal it?" Tariyne gave a nod, forgetting her character. When she remembered herself, she realised it didn't matter, and hung her head to display what she hoped would be seen as guilt from taking a high class weapon for herself, "we could use another servant. We didn't fetch any on the trip." The female had obviously acknowledged her reply, allowing Tariyne to raise her head to study her carefully; there was an obvious size difference, the light blue cloak being the taller one, "she has a name?" She was smug, holding up her head as if to emphasise her position of power.  
"Iyssia." The male repeated the name Tariyne had offered.  
"I'm Jaisia, heir to be head of the light blue cloaks," the female introduced herself, "and this is Diyalex, my cousin."  
"It's a pleasure," Tariyne dipped her head in a sign of respect, "I always wanted to be part of a cloak." She felt rather false, and grimaced at her own words. Neither of them noticed.  
"You'll not be part of a cloak, you'll be serving one," Jaisia corrected sharply, turning on her heel. Diyalex waited for her to get a lead before he followed, summoning her to walk beside him. He pulled his cloak around him as he walked.  
"Cold?" Tariyne asked him. She was cold herself, but she knew that the difference in warmth between across the ice lake was greater than taking off a cloak. Or, she assumed it so, from what she had read. Reading was important, for a person of the mentally able class. Knowledge was power. She knew also, perhaps recalling that bit of information a little late, that it was out of turn for a lower classed person to address a higher classed person as she had just did, but from what she knew of no cloaks who wore no coloured belt, they weren't aware of all the courtesies. In fact, they were not aware of many.  
"How do you manage without a cloak?" Diyalex returned, studying her through grey-blue eyes; Tariyne did not meet his gaze, but looked away. _If he looks too hard, he may recognise me_. They were walking towards one of the spots in the distance, not the green cloak camp she had decided it was, but a light blue one.  
"I still feel the cold. I've just grown used to it through my years...cloak." She did not know the answer to his question, but she replied with what she thought was most likely the correct answer.  
"Oh, I see," Diyalex's had moved his gaze from her and back to the frozen plain they were crossing, "also its, lord, not cloak."  
"Sorry, lord." Tariyne replied. nothing came after that, the journey completed in an awkward silence, but Tariyne treasured the precious moments to cement her story into her mind. She was Iyssia, born a no cloak and raised alone by her mother. When she was young, her mother would tell her all about the cloaks, and she looked up to them, wanting to be part of one; to Tariyne herself, that child was rather foolish - from a cloak you could become a no cloak, but a no cloak could never be a cloak. It would be easier for her if she had created a role she was happy with, but time had not been on her side and she understood in order to build a life for herself she had no choice to accept that her life was to be nothing but a lie. In that moment, Tariyne began to wonder if giving up who she was was worth living, or if she would indeed rather welcome death with open arms.


	5. Interlude (I)

The wolves were hungry, angry beasts that fought to tear the flesh from the limbs of their kill, snarling as another tried to slip in besides them and share what they had claimed as their own. Sharp teeth ripped through the pale white cloth, exposing the pink flesh beneath for only seconds before those fangs tore into that, dark red blood pouring out from the newly made bite and staining the mouths of the creatures who made their feast. It was a large pack, so they made quick work of the body, crunching up the bones and leaving nothing but torn up cloth that had formally been a purple belt, and half a head, mattered hair hiding the face, as they slunk away into the tall trees, stomachs satisfied from the hunt. The child in the tree had seen it all, clinging to the branch with her little hands, silent in fear as she had watched the woman who could have only been her mother be slain by the wolf pack; even when the wolves had gone, she dare not cry in fear that they would come back, rip her down from between the leaves and devour her whole. She was too young to understand anything but that her mother was gone, too young to do anything but squeeze harder on the branch of the tree, hugging it to her chest to protect her. Her mother had put her up here, to be safe from the wolves. She did not know how to get down. But she could not stay up here; she remembered how they were always on the move – moving with the food supply. They were moving now, as the warm season faded into the cold; the leaves were brown, and the tighter she clutched at them the more the crumbled beneath her fingers, fragments blowing away in the light breeze, exposing more of the ground below. She did not want to fall. She did not want to see. She closed her eyes, tightly, shutting the world out, until...  
“Girl,” The voice sliced through the silence like a sword. The little girl opened one eye, and peered down at the man below, a man dressed in a pale blue cloak with hair that brushed against his shoulders. The colour of the dead leaves, “girl, what are you doing up there?”  
She could not contain herself then, and her little body began to wrack with sobs.  
“Do not cry, little one.” The cloaked man continued. He had a bow strapped to his back along with several arrows, a higher number than she could count to, “was that your mother?”  
She nodded. She wanted to move one of her hands to wipe the tears from her eyes, but she was afraid of falling. The man put one foot on the base of the tree, testing it before beginning to climb, reaching out for her. She wanted to shuffle away, but his hand found her arms before she could dare herself to move, arms moving to embrace her and then pull here away from the tree and as a bundle into the safety of his arms; safer than the tree. His body was warm, full of life.  
“Come on then, sweetheart.” The man wrapped his cloak around her, providing that security she needed as she began to cling at the man like she had clung to the branch, deciding she was more afraid of the wolves than she was of men. She peaked out of the flap of his light blue cloak as he began to walk, aware of the sparse woodland morphing out into a plain decorated with little homes made of a mishmash of wood and stone. The finest of the buildings was at the centre, the door decorated with a pale blue tapestry. The man opened that door, which let out a low groan, and slipped inside, taking care to shut the world out behind him. The girl was aware of the sudden warmth of the fire that roared in the hearth – she had never seen a fire so big. She wanted to pull aside the cloak that blocked most of her vision and admire the dancing flames, but the man did not hesitate, ascending up the staircase to another room, the door already partially open. She was very much aware of the girl sprawled out across the bed, curled brown hair with a hallowed face and complexion of deathly white; a woman was hunched over the form of the girl, running a finger across her slackened jawline.  
“I don't want to go back across the lake,” the woman stated, not lifting her head. She had dark hair too, “the others will say the great dragon has frowned upon us. That is a shame I cannot live with,” she shook her head viciously, “first they take my fertility, and then they take my only daughter? I must be a monster.”  
“The purple swine was not working for the great dragon when he offered our daughter a poisoned berry.” The man informed the woman, who could only be his lady wife, “I say the sun has blessed us.”  
“Blessed?!” The woman turned to look at him as if she had been slapped, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.  
“I found a little girl in the forest,” the man removed her cover, exposing her and setting her down. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled, landing in a little heap in on the floor, “look at her hair. Her hair is golden, like the rays of light the great dragon sends us.”  
“She....she's awfully small,” the woman managed, slipping from her stool to crouch by the child's side; the child looked up at her, reaching out with a hand to touch her, she looked like mother, “and where? Where would would we have hidden a secret child for so long, why?”  
“This is our daughter, our only daughter,” the man crouched down on the other side, extending out his hand and placing it on his wife's knee, “we shall burn the body,” he nodded to the little girl on the bed, “a golden haired little girl on the outskirts of the forest, left to die. I found her, the sun blesses us, we cannot refuse the blessing.” The child understood. They were going to give her a home. A better home. The wolves would not come for her.  
“The great dragon has made me a child,” the woman smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks, “we shall treasure her. Our little girl has simply taken another form.”  
They cut her hair, coating it with a paste that turned it to a medium brown, and then they put it up, pinning it so that from a bun on her head, a plait hung over each of her shoulders. Shoulders dressed in a light blue cloak. The fire consumed the nobody. The daughter of the light blue cloak leader left the little settlement on horseback.


	6. Chessren (II)

It was dark and damp and cold. Heavy chains bound him to the walls by his arms, suffocating the skin beneath - Chessren could only see the outlines of his bound hands in the low light, but that was more than he could feel them; smell was the only sense he had, unless he attempted to shake his chains, but that was fruitless, for the sound hurt his ears, and the sound did nothing but remind him of his current condition; the repulsive stench of his own stale blood and waste clung to his nose, a constant reminder of his weakened state - he could not afford to waste precious energy to create noise for his ears, the smell was enough to remind him he was very much alive. It took enough energy to move as far away as his chains would allow him to make his waste, dragging himself painfully across the floor both there and back to his little corner, but he would not sink to the level of the no cloaks. _I am a red cloak, if they lock me away I will do it with dignity._ It would probably be the last thing he would ever smell, his own dirt, he wouldn't put it past the green cloaks to leave him to die here, to rot. Cowards let people rot, and they were cowards if they had to attack from within. If they wanted him to die quickly, they would have already done it; they had ample opportunity to claim his head when they overpowered him in the battle, but now he was here, chained to the wall of his own home in the dark, living on scraps of food they tossed to him like he was a dog. He did not eat at first, out of spite, but dying would serve no purpose but give them a claim - he was still the heir to the crownhill as long as he lived, which was why he was puzzled, _why am I alive when a swing of a sword at my neck brought them one step closer to taking the crown?_ Not one of the traitors he had struck down, or the ones who put him here had aimed to kill him, so he gathered that he wasn't supposed to be dead. The only solution seemed that it was to be a trade, his life for the King to give up his claim, perhaps. Chessren did not know how much his father valued him over honour. Chessren did also not expect for his father to have fled the scene of the battle, even if he had not managed to find him during the clash of steel. The castle was large. But the red cloaks had lost, and the only other reason he could pin to being held captive was to pend a public execution. At least he didn't have to get married; he did not understand why the green cloaks had even insisted on that, if they were just going to take power by force rather than being wiser and inheriting it. He was no mentally able man, but he was smarter than the green cloaks, it seemed. They could also be keeping him alive for their own amusement, the thought had crossed his mind; perhaps they were watching him now, sniggering at his misery - if anybody walked into his cell right now, Chessren would gladly strangle them with his chains if they came close enough. In locking him down here to die, they were tarnishing his honour, it would be easier to tear the cloak from his neck and burn it, but they had left the red material cleanly attached, even if it was a much darker red than it was supposed to be now from the filth of his surroundings. At least they had bound his leg. It was still probably infected, because it stank. Chessren did not dare peel back the dressing, for he did not want to see the damage. He could hardly move the leg, that was enough to inform him it was serious and there was no possibility that in his current state it would be able to support his weight or be any use to him if he wanted to resit anything the green cloaks threw at him – and the purple, they were involved too, he recalled, and considering their higher rank in the hierarchy, were most likely the real villains. He wasn't very aware of his other wounds, his body was too numb to feel pain, that much he was thankful for.  
He closed his eyes, resting his head against the rough brickwork, which he would not accept as comfortable no matter how long he survived in this place, but was far better than the floor; he knew that sleep would grant him nothing, but it was better than dwelling on his own thoughts, which were mostly collections of possibilities of what may of been. One of those thought bubbles involved his jealousy of his sister's abilities, or more so his wondering that if he'd been able to wield two blades correctly the outcome of the battle would have been different; but it had done her no favours, as Chessren recalled she only had one hand to use before she had even left her own chambers. _But she is a thinker, not a fighter,_ the little voice in his head reminded him, and he had no counterargument for that, leaving the option that the fate of the battle had been very much down to his own lack of equal hand strength. Chessren could have laughed at that. Tariyne and himself were so similar, of equal height, or hair and eye, yet she had the gift of being able to use both of her hands where he could only use one. The true superiority of women, she had said once, and only once she had said that, for the King had reminded her that his own red cloak grandfather had not fought and gained gender equality for his great-granddaughter to spit on it, and when Chessren was crowned heir, Chessren remembered how his twin sister had sulked and cursed that her brother had pushed her aside in their mother's womb to be the first of them to enter the world. She had never been angry with him though, Tariyne could not be angry with him as much as he could never be angry with he; it was Tariyne he missed most of all - he didn't even know if his sister had made it out of the citadel - she was not here with him, but she was not as much of a prize as the heir, and they had swung at her head enough in the battle, maybe they had succeeded in removing it from her shoulders. He did not want to think of that. His were torture. Perhaps that was why he was here, to go mad. The green cloaks would like it if he went mad before he died, and they would laugh about how the mighty had fallen, although the purple cloaks may be a little more reserved. The purple cloaks did have an affection for madness, from what Chessren had heard. He had no affection for madness however, and he would refuse to grant the green cloaks their wish. Perhaps he should start ignoring the food again. There had not been much,but he had not been locked away for long, or so he thought, as he would have died from lack of nourishment if the way he was preserving the long hours was accurate. He had only received two meals. He had eaten one.  
A key in a lock. Chessren blinked heavily as the door was thrown open and the light level changed, not by much, but enough to strain his eyes. There was a silhouette in the door, a man by the looks of it. He was tall, yet stocky, and Chessren could see his cloak was a purple one. It wasn't the physician then. She wore green, and the physician was a women. This man lumbered over to him, taking his set of keys to the wall and selecting another to fit into the locks for the chains. This was it then. They were not going to leave him to die in his own waste.  
"No funny business," the man spoke with a gruff low voice, yanking the chain he had just set free, which resulted in Chessren's arm flying up from where it was resting comfortably to hanging limply in empty space. Chessren looked at his arm rather blankly before casting a glare at the man, not fond of the attitude he was taking, "and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stand up." The man demanded, pulling on the chain again as an indication for his to stand. If he was not in chains, Chessren would have been very tempted to strike the purple cloak at that point, not only for the colour of his cloak or his choice of tone, both of which he would hit the man for without the third factor, but for his ignorance. But Chessren was in chains. All he could do was tilt his head towards where his legs were sprawled out and nod at them, and it took the purple cloak several nods for him to understand what Chessren was attempting to communicate. He would have been far easier to use word. The man gave an audible sigh as a response when he finally understood.  
"You want picking up and carrying now do you, princess? Tell you what, I'll drag you." He did not wait for a reply but sharply jerked the chains, turning to walk away. Chessren was forced down onto onto his stomach with a ferocity that he was sure would not leave him unmarked, and then he was sliding forwards across the dirt-clad stone floor. It did not take this strong purple cloak long to drag him out of his cell, and Chessren soon found himself scrabbling to get to his feet, but his left leg was completely unresponsive. At a best he was pushing himself up from the ground and then falling to meet it again, without any assistance from the purple cloak who had decided to humiliate him. He could feel his face burning for that, and he mentally swore that if he was able to he his hands on his man he would beat him bloody. It was not long before his left knee hit a bump in the stonework and Chessren had to suppress a scream of agony, but in all his effort a muffled noise was released from his mouth. They stopped then, and the purple cloak turned on him, face marked by a smug smile.  
"Ready to stand and walk in with some dignity?" He asked, taking a step towards him, "or are you going to continue laying on the floor like the useless piece of filth that you are?" Chessren gave a reluctant nod, eyes finding the floor as he attempted to flush the anger from his face. This man was trying to infuriate him, another wish he did not want to grant. The purple cloak had loosened his pull on the chains; Chessren was able to push himself onto one knee with a small struggle, and then with the wall as an aide, he found his feet, although he was not sure he could maintain the posture for long, even hopping, for his left leg felt as if it almost did not exist, and in the fleeting instances it did, it was a white hot dagger of pain that shot up that limb, reminding him that his leg did indeed exist. The purple cloak did not grant him any additional moments to attempt to balance himself, but pulled him along with such a sudden speed that Chessren knew that when they stopped he would do nothing but fall flat on his face; when they reached the stairs, he was grabbed under the armpit and hauled up, his feet bouncing on each step as they went, but the man did not release his hold on him when they reached the top, dragging him round the corridors which Chessren recognised as the route from the cells to the throne room, and upon reaching the doors, he was cast aside like a broken toy, to which he fell down once again to the floor, only avoiding smashing his face into the ground by the use of his hands. He did not look up, but hung his head as his chains were taken up again and he felt himself being dragged into the throne room the same way he had exited his cell, weak and helpless to put up any sort of a fight. He was tired from simply even tyring to move. He kept his eyes on the floor until he stopped and the purple cloak dropped hold of the chains once more, but this time grabbing him by the fur of his cloak and pulling him up to to see his surroundings.  
He couldn't run, even if he had the use of both his legs, that much was clear by the line of green cloaks on his left and the line of purple cloaks on his right. He could feel their piercing glares drilling into his head, and it took a moment for him to compose himself so he felt comfortable. It was just like the feast, just like kingly duties, people stared then, but in those events, Chessren would not find himself on the floor in chains and smelling like a rotting deer carcass. He let his own gaze run down both of the lines, get an idea of the numbers, picking up instantly that there were more green cloaks than King Brastiam had brought to the crownhill, although the number in line was not of a great amount, but accounting for the green cloaks he was sure he had killed, he was not good at numbers, but he knew that some of the faces in that line were new to him, and he also knew that if they had been planning to take the citadel all along they would have been camped nearby, with the purple cloaks, who had obviously not been present beforehand. He finished the green cloak line and moved onto the purple one, irritated with the number that still existed. He wished he'd picked another route instead of to the main hall, like they expected him to run to; if he had come up from behind and cut them all down, maybe the numbers of traitors would be smaller, or perhaps they would all be dead or in chains waiting to be dragged up to watch their cloaks burn. But that was unlikely, the red cloaks were a quarter size of most of the cloaks, small, but more perfect, as the Queen had like to say, as not every cloak had eyes that burned the colour of the sun. He was half-way down the purple cloak line when they turned a quarter circle away from him and began to leave the room in two orderly lines. The purple cloak who had brought him remained however, standing closely by his side, like a loyal hound. But he wasn't the owner the dog was loyal to, he was the kill the hound had fetched back.  
"I'm glad to see you alive, my love." Standing besides the throne, caressing the top of it gently with her long fingers, was Lady Sansenya, wearing her green cloak proudly and holding her head in the air to perhaps convey a sense of her superiority. The only physical wound Chessren could see was a graze on her neck, which had obviously been cleaned and tended to. A shame it did not go any deeper.She was in a much grander state that he was - if they spared him, it was a growing possibility Chessren would lose his left leg. He didn't want to think about that either. He chose not to reply to her, but glare. If looks could kill, the traitor would have daggers in her throat. When she realised he had no comment, she frowned, "the king is dead, I believe that makes you king now."  
"Dead," Chessren had found his voice, spitting out the word as if it was coated in poison, "did he willingly put his head on a block?"  
"Auelya!" Sansenya turned her head to the right and called out. In response to the name, a purple cloak strode in from the side exit, carrying a sack in each hand. She had long pale blonde hair, some of it which was pulled into a plait across the top of her head, wisps of it free that Chessren suspected had fallen free from the style she was wearing it, and in other circumstances he would have likely found her rather attractive. His eyes soon moved from her features and to the sacks, which she gripped tightly closed; she moved towards him in confident strides, and then dropped one of the sacks in front of him.  
"Open it." Sansenya's tone was not a demanding one, but it still held an instruction. Chessren reached forward, cautiously dragging the sack closer. When the closed end of the sack was in range, he lifted it up and let the contents spill out onto the floor. What he saw made him take a sharp intake of breath. And then he exhaled; he had no tears. Anger consumed him like a fire, allowing him to reach into the reserves of his energy supplies. He twisted his head up to look at her.  
"You had no right!" He hissed. Sansenya said nothing. He looked back down, running his fingers over the severed head of his father. He rested his palm upon the former King's forehead, closing his eyes and speaking a silent goodbye. She had the courtesy not to interrupt him. He kept his eyes closer longer than he had to, not wanting to look or believe, yet anger demanded that his eyes did not stay closed. The fingers on his other hand were curling.  
"And the next one," Sansenya's tone did not change. The second sack was dropped beside him and before Chessren reached for it he knew what was in it. This time, he reached in and pulled the head from the bag, repeating the actions for the Queen as he had done for the King. His mother's ginger curls had also been docked by the blade that had cost her her head, but the executioner had been kind enough to make the cut a clean one. Klaujay's lock was missing too, which was fitting. The title of the biggest tragedy had been robbed from death of his brother, "satisfied?" He wasn't sure if he imagined the mockery in her voice, or if it was actually present. He wasn't ready to look her in the eye yet, the anger was consorting his features and he still was not prepared to offer them any satisfaction; it took several deep breaths for him to calm himself, although the fire was not fully out.  
"Why am I still alive?"  
"We are to get married, remember? You're the King and I'm your Queen." Chessren's head snapped up then. She wasn't looking at him at all, her focus on the throne, which both of her hands now stroked. At least she wasn't sitting in it. Yet. It occurred to him then that Tariyne's head hadn't been presented to him; if they took his own head, his sister would ascend to the position of Queen. She had made it then. He laughed, a croaky, disfigured laugh. Sansenya stiffened.  
"I'd rather marry my sister." He saw instantly the mention of Tariyne was a burn on her pride, meaning they had definitely lost her. Her fists let go of the throne and clenched, "or die."  
"But we're already engaged." She recovered quickly, looking down to her boots - true enough the lace which has added when Chessren had proposed to her was still present, as it was on his own boots, anthough it was mangled and knotted in his case. , but he'd hardly been able to remove that lace.  
"You're guilty of committing treason. The engagement is hardly valid now," Chessren narrowed his eyes slightly, removing himself from inside her game and to the outside, challenging her position, "I should have you're head for that, traitor." It earned him a whack round the face with the hilt of a sword, Auelya's sword. The strike was strong enough to send him back to the floor. It also stung, reminding him pain existed in not just his leg.  
"Leave him be." Sansenya snapped, and Chessren was left unsure whether the tone in her voice was directed at him or the purple cloak woman, whom obeyed, backing away to where the other purple cloak, the man, was stood, give him some distance. Chessren did not bother to pull himself back up onto his knees, or rather a single knee with the injured one trailing behind, as the leader of the green cloaks began to move, stepping down from the stage on which the throne was placed and onto level ground - level ground it would be, if he was stood.  
"We have already passed on the message that the dark blue cloaks turned on you and we as came to your aid in honouring our alliance." Chessren could have reminded her it was a trade agreement she had signed, not an alliance, but he avoided the subject, reminding himself that a marriage would have turned the simple agreement more towards an alliance - he picked up instead on the other fault in her statement.  
"The dark blue cloaks don't all reside in the citadel. Your claim will be taken as a lie." He hope he sounded fiercer to her than he sounded to himself. His right hand was shaking.  
"And they would risk themselves on this? We have the purple cloaks supporting us, we have better steel and from the ones that didn't live within your walls, we'll outnumber them when the other cloaks come to support us. We will offer them payment for their loses, of course." She crouched down beside him, offering him a hand. When he refused to take it, she pulled him up to an awkward sitting position wth a force that was far too gentle, laying a hand on the cheek Aeulya had struck and stroking it gently, "be wise, Chessren, marry me and let me be your Queen. Otherwise, I'll just have to send out the message that you and your sister conspired with the dark blue cloaks to ascend yourself to the throne before your father was ready to give up his crown, and that it was you that wielded the blade that cut off the King's head. And maybe I could add in your sister killed your mother." She paused, letting a finger brush his lips, his eyes followed that movement instead of her eyes, "it would explain the payment we offered the dark blue cloaks for the lives we took. But you know what would happen to you if it was discovered you murdered your own father. You would be dishonoured and you would lose your cloak as well as the crown. You would be nothing, spat upon for the rest of your miserable existence." Honour, she was playing with his honour. In a single day, he had lost all his power, her lies would become the truth; it would be dishonour to marry her, but in her truth, it was only dishonour to him, _but was it?_ He would still be King, ultimately holding power over her, but one wrong move, and she would have his head, and then she would spin a lie about Tariyne to remove her as Queen. It was dishonour to abandon your cloak, your family. He had seen his small family butchered in the battle, with only Tariyne remaining, but it would be dishonour to abandon her. Even with his every move being watched, Chessren still had an opportunity to seek the revenge the red cloaks deserved; and then everyone would see him as an hourable man.  
"I'll honour our engagement." Chessren chose his words carefully, resulting in a small smile from his soon-to-be wife. She ran her finger across his lip again, and leaned in, almost as if she was going to kiss him, but her lips only brushed his own and went to his ear.  
"Thank you for making this easier for me, my dear," She spoke in a hushed tone, "I'll make it up to you." She leaned back then, and stood up, beginning to circle him like a predator circling prey. After she had completed several rings of him, she turned to the purple cloak who had fetched him in and nodded. The brute instantly yanked the chains again, ready to drag him back to where he had come from until he was needed again, which Chessren believe was probably to wed. Perhaps they ould bring him better food and drink this time, and despite his earlier conclusion, he would have to accept their offerings if he had any hope of achieving justice.  
"No, no, Jorne, you can stop the dragging now. He's to be King when we crown him, not a traitor." Sansenya held up a single palm to signal a stop, and the purple cloak, Jorne, did stop; Chessren was hauled up and his left arm thrown over the purple cloak's shoulder. Joer held his arm there, but the grip was more relaxed.  
"Take him to get cleaned up. He needs to be able to stand to for our marriage which means I don't want that leg removing unless its absolutely necessary." She paused, looking over at Auelya, "no, take him to his old chambers and then go fetch him some light wine and some fresh berries. Auelya, tell Mareese to gather supplies and take them up to treat our future King in his own room." She smiled, the same smile as her feast smile. Jorne turned him away, taking a pace Chessren was able to hop at, "he is to be first priority, he needs to be able to live up to his physically able status to produce himself an heir." Chessren mistimed his hop and fell forwards, only to be caught by the firm hands of Jorne.  
"Come on then, Princess." Jorne spoke in a hushed voice that was only loud enough for Chessren to hear, picking him up and carrying him out of the throne room, his cloak hanging down and brushing the floor. Chessren very much wanted to reach for it, for his it was as if his honour was being dragged across the stone while he was above it, leaving it behind, but his hands could not reach. He was opening the door to a dangerous game, and Chessren was not sure he had all the required pieces to play it.


End file.
